Where the Dead Talk (32 page)

September 23, 1781 – six years later.

Greencastle, Pennsylvania

Thomas ran the small hand scraper along the edge of the violin neck clamped in the wooden vise, then leaned over to see the smooth plane that he’d made on the curving surface. A neat chamfer, though there was a wiggle in it that Nathaniel Longstreet would frown at. Longstreet was a local instrument maker that Thomas had been apprenticing with for the past several years; demanding, yet patient. Thomas enjoyed the work. The detail of it, the fifes and fiddles. The feel of the wood and the tools, the smell of sawdust, turning something rough into something that could shine and sing. When he’d first told Pomeroy what he’d wanted to do, he’d more than expected a stinging barb – Ah, yes, just what the world needs: a deaf fiddlemaker. Instead, Pomeroy had immediately bought him the finest tools he could find, and made space for him to work.

He checked the edge on his scraper again with his thumb, then leaned in and took another pass. A curl of wood spun out beneath the edge of the scraper. The sun came in through the dusty window of the barn, shining on the pile of wood scrapings he’d made. A square of light appeared on the wall as the side door to the barn opened up behind him. Thomas stood up and turned around. It was Lizzie.

"We got a letter and papa wants you to be there, Thomas," she said.

With that, she spun around and ran back to the house. Thomas crossed from the workshop area in the barn to the tavern. The leaves in the trees were still green, though they were starting to blush, a hint of the reds and yellows to come. The morning was warm for late September. He opened the door to the kitchen. It smelled of fresh beer and bread. Two hot loaves were cooling on the table. In the common room, Pomeroy stood in the doorway that opened up onto the street in front. He wore his customary apron and loose shirt, his long hair pulled back with a tie.

"Please," he said, "walk more slowly next time, Thomas."

"What?" Thomas said. "I came straight away."

"Remind me not to send you running for help if there’s a fire."

"Ah, more sarcasm," Thomas said, "I never tire of it."

Pomeroy sniffed and stood up from where he was leaning.

"I thought you might be interested in reading the letter that we just received by post," he said. He held up the letter and broke the wax seal on the back, then handed it to Thomas.

"What’s it say?" Lizzie said, impatient as always. She was only five. Carolyn looked up at him from where she sat polishing the pewter utensils for the tavern. She was going to have another baby, though she didn’t look it yet. Pomeroy had told him just the night before, after they'd finished closing up for the evening. He'd poured Thomas an ale as a toast, and the two of them had tossed back and forth ideas for names as the last of the logs in the hearth had gone down to embers. I had been well past midnight by the time Thomas had finally gone off to bed.

"It’s from Mr. J. Brewster, Brewster’s Inn, Ipswich, Massachusetts," he said. He opened the letter up, knocking off the last of the wax.

"Who’s that?" Lizzie said, "Where’s Ip-stich?"

Carolyn shushed her.

"Read it, Thomas," she said.

He’d become quite good at reading both of their lips. He cleared his throat and held the letter in the sunlight. The writing was strong and clear, from Brewster himself.

"’Dear Pomeroys and Chases. I hope this finds you all well and prosperous this autumn. We are all fine, and business is good. We’ve developed the reputation as the finest tavern north of Boston, and are always busy with travelers and locals.

‘A few bits of interest that you ought to know about: Firstly, Elizabeth and I have now a charming and delightful set of twins, now nearly a month old. They are beautiful and healthy. Isaac and William, and more than enough to keep both of us busy round both sides of the day."

Pomeroy chuckled.

"Gods, twins," he said. He looked over at Carolyn. "Try not to do that, dearest, if you would be so kind."

"Please. As if I have a choice," Carolyn said. She shook her head and smiled. "Poor Elizabeth. Go on Thomas."

Thomas shifted the letter and went on.

"‘The second big news here is that Ipswich has a new Mayor. Mayor Zeke Morrill, in fact. He and the MacGuire boys are busy with their dairy farm, and now Morrill has transferred his knack for being the most likeable fellow in town into being the most likeable Mayor in town.’

’William, the third bit of news is for you: one of my brews from this spring past was called ‘the Finest in Massachusetts’ by the Boston Courier. I’ve called it English Revolutionary Ale – and I thought you might appreciate it, since it’s named for you, the finest English revolutionary I had the pleasure to serve with. Fine brew for a fine man.’"

Thomas looked up. Pomeroy shook his head slightly, a tight smile on his lips. Thomas looked over at Carolyn and saw her eyes fill with sudden tears. She kept smiling, and wiped them away with the hem of her apron. Pomeroy walked over and leaned down, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. He picked up the girl.

"Come here, dearie," he said. The girl wrapped her arms around his neck.

"What’s wrong, mummy?" Lizzie said.

Carolyn shook her head.

"It’s alright, sweetness," she said, "Mummy was just thinking about some people she used to know."

Thomas cleared his throat and finished the letter.

"’I trust that all is well out on the frontier where you are, and that your harvests and brews are bountiful. William – come on, give me some competition. Yours, etc., Jude Brewster, Master Brewer."

Thomas looked up. Pomeroy snorted.

"Master Brewer, as if that’s an official title."

"It might be," Thomas said.

"Please, boy. Try not to be so gullible."

Pomeroy turned and pointed at a fresh cask brought up from the cellar.

"Wait until I tell him about my latest and greatest," he said, "Brewster's Dark Porter. That’ll scare him."

He held tightly to Lizzie, who giggled and laughed. She could be a brat, but she was all in all a fine little sister, as they had insisted that he regard her as. Pomeroy turned around suddenly. His face was lively.

"Oh, he’ll love this," he said, tapping his temple, "I’m brilliant, really. My next brew: Morrill’s Artillery Ale. Bloody brilliant."

Thomas walked back to the barn a short while later. He would work with Lizzie on her letters that afternoon – it was one of his responsibilities. In the meantime, he wanted to finish the neck of the fiddle before Longstreet came by for lunch, as had become his custom on Saturdays. If it came out well enough, he’d show it to him.

He walked through the shade and sunlight of that unusually warm September morning, into the cool of the barn. Out of the corner of his eye, the shadows followed him, faint in the daytime. They never bothered him, or even frightened him any longer. He’d grown used to them in the years since they’d left Massachusetts; in fact, he’d told Pomeroy and Carolyn about them, heeding the advice of Jude Brewster, who’d told him after they’d finally left West Bradhill behind them that a man could pay a terrible price to himself by keeping a secret too tightly, especially a secret of the dead. And that’s what followed Thomas: shades of the dead. They were always there, ever since the lake, following him in silence.

But in truth, the ones he'd lost were worse than these shades – those memories stayed with him, too, and weren't as easy to ignore. Thomas picked up his scraper and looked down the length of wood in the vise. He went back to work.

The Lake (Part Two)

Seasons came and went, and years came and went, and still nothing thrived anywhere around the deep gully that marked the place where the lake had been. Eventually, even the name of the small village that had stood nearby was buried underneath passing decades, forgotten by those occasional travelers who passed by the wild area. The young became old and passed away, and other places danced with life.

And while no land stands unclaimed for long, the land around the lake did longer than most. Other towns grew and spread and pressed slowly into the old woods and fields; their borders eventually met and the land had a name once again. So it was that after the rocks had bleached in the sun of scores of summers and cracked in the deep throes of New England winters, it happened all at once, one night in an October long after it had grown silent and empty.

The lake came back.

From the deepest crevice, it flooded in and began to rise, and by cool autumn morning, it was deep, and black, and icy cold.

About the author

Ken grew up in Massachusetts, surrounded by Colonial history and plenty of stretches of dark woods. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife, daughter, and his two insane mutts.

Acknowledgements

I'd like to give a heartfelt thanks to the amazing people who helped me with this novel, either through their steadfast encouragement or their invaluable contributions during early and late reads of the manuscript. First, always, Leah and Lila. For keeping me focused on the art, huge thanks to my soul brothers Ron Rosenberg and Jim Pelz. For his sharp eye and suggestions, Stefan Arnold. For his many insights and efforts, Don Maass.

Connect with me online:

My site:
http://www.kendavisauthor.com

Twitter:
http://twitter.com/kencdavis

Table of Contents

The Lake (Part One)

The Lake (Part Two)